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Johnny, Vito, Rocco, Bunny. The gang’s all here, and for a few hours, so are you, as audience members mingle with garrulous mobsters and their trophy molls for an interactive, third-rate celebration honoring the newly appointed don. Belabored introductory speeches and toasts quickly give way to cringe-inducing karaoke–Rocco’s rendition of “My Girl” is particularly tragic–and standard disco tunes. Then, suddenly, one VIP guest is murdered, the first in a long line of B-movie deaths to come, leaving cast members to shout their way through writer Joni Pacie’s awkwardly Brooklynese dialogue. The barrage of adolescent jokes and bad puns (not to mention an interrogation led by one exceptionally oversexed detective) may not kill your appetite, but the sad plate of undercooked rigatoni and cafeteria-style chicken parmigiana won’t satisfy it either. — Lauren Berger